


Достопримечательности

by ClementineStarling



Category: Body of Lies (2008)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 03:41:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5612623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don't be greedy, my dear."</p><p>Hani takes Roger sightseeing<br/>_</p><p>note: this might be pushing the mature-rating a bit. just fyi. <br/>and yes, this fic is in english not in russian, i was just having a bit of fun with the title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Достопримечательности

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unsettled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/gifts).



> So, I had a quick glance at the novel a while back, realised that the first chapter describes the 'going fishing scene', with the rather peculiar detail that the whole thing is happening in Berlin (a pretty creative version of it for that matter). Strange, right?! But somehow fitting, because I owe unsettled a postcard and I saw, she wished for BoL-fic in her Yuletide-letter with the very detailed specification “I'd just love anything not written by me.” Which can be arranged it seems. I hope this reduces my debt in the mail- and also in the fic-department a little. :P
> 
> Essentially this is just a virtual postcard. (Real one to follow.)  
> From Berlin with love. And happy birthday! :*
> 
> title = Russian for sights (as in attractions) which is a word all of my friends who learned Russian in school seem to love for some reason or other, so I thought, hell, why not use it just for fun and nostalgic reasons.  
> And oh, I also hope the amount of mistakes in this fic is somewhat tolerable. ^^

_

“The TV tower? Are you serious?”  
“Why would I not be serious?” Hani smiled this very polite smile of his, a smile that almost reached his eyes. “Why not use the time for getting to know each other,” he said, “I like to know with whom I am working.”

And that's how they came here. 

The city beneath them is bathed in the soft light of an October afternoon, the horizon blurred by a hint of fog, the world fuzzing out into a vague blue. “The food is mediocre, I am told,” Hani says as they are led towards their table on the rotating platform, “but the view is supposed to be all the more impressive.”

As it turns out it's not not so much the view Roger finds fascinating, even though it is indeed rather nice, but more how the restaurant feels as though frozen in time. A Sputnik-inspired bubble hanging 680 feet over Berlin, stuck in 1969, the space age aesthetic remarkably well preserved. History becomes almost palpable here, at least if you use your imagination. Though it might also help that, at this very moment, their windows face the socialist apartment blocks to the East of the city, standing in line like concrete shoe boxes, grim witnesses of a bygone dream, one after the other, until they lose themselves in the rising evening mist. 

Roger hardly notices Hani ordering coffee and cake, while he watches the cityscape slowly gliding by, while the platform keeps rotating, one full turn each hour, and is only stirred from gazing into the distance, when Hani remarks upon his fascination: “Do you still think it was not a good idea to come here?”

“Ah, no, Hani Pasha, I did not want to imply... I just... you know, work and pleasure's not supposed to mix too well.”

Hani looks at him with the faintest hint of amusement. “You can regard this as entirely a matter of business, if it makes you feel better, my dear.”

“Which would make this a meeting of two spies atop a space age building.”

Hani's lips curl into a proper smile this time. “Precisely. Very 007, don't you think? Now tell me, Mr Ferris, did you dream of becoming a secret agent when you were a little boy?”

“Sure.” Roger shrugs. “Which boy doesn't? Astronaut, fireman, spy... those were the top choices.”

“Now, what made you choose the latter then?”

“Seeing the world perhaps.” 

“Not the glamour or the women?” A glint of teeth behind Hani's lips, makes Roger swallow. He remembers only too vividly a dream he once had, after watching some Bond movie as a kid: the villain in an elegant suit, long fingers toying with a knife, the agent bound and at his mercy. It caused a squirming feeling in the pit of his stomach, which he could not quite place yet. 

“I could ask you the same,” he says instead of an answer.

“Well, in my case it is obviously the glamour.” Another smile would be in order at the joke – because it must be a joke, right? – but Hani 's face is blank and he only stares at him in a way that does nothing to feel him less queasy and Roger is utterly thankful when the waitress arrives with their coffee.

“Die Schwarzwälderkirschtorte?” she asks, apparently confused about whom to serve which cake, because Hani seems to have ordered two different pieces, and Hani gives her his most charming smile – the one he reserves for people of no further interest to him as Roger has already discovered, which nonetheless does not stop him from feeling the tiniest bit jealous – and indicates that Roger is the lucky recipient of the black forest cake with an almost regal gesture of his hand.  
“I hope you like it. You were so entranced by the view, I took the liberty of ordering for you.”

Roger looks down on his composition of whipped cream, chocolate cake and cherries, an ensemble invoking Snow White's trinity of snow, blood and ebony; not a bad choice, perhaps even what he would have ordered himself. There lies a certain sensuality in the way the cake gives under the fork, soft and juicy, ready to fall apart into delicious pieces. 

Hani selected a dark chocolate cake for himself, with a frosting so smooth and shiny and perfect, it makes Roger wonder how much symbolism he's supposed to read into their respective cakes, and judging from Hani's smug expression, the answer to that unspoken question would be: a lot.

Roger's had enough experience and training to have at least an inkling what this is all about. Now, under other circumstances, he'd have no problem with that. Certainly connections are part of the job, making friends so to speak, and Hani is really, really attractive. But this is the chief of Jordanian intelligence, which makes this even more political, it could be a trap on so many levels, and what if he read him wrong-- sometimes, despite all his time in the middle east and the study of Arab culture, he's still pretty lost when it comes to manners and social affairs, and the scandal if he offered an insult, and also the damage to the mission is nothing he can afford. Ed Hoffman would have his head on a silver platter. 

Despite his best efforts a good deal of his thoughts must have shown, because Hani says, “I did not want to make you uncomfortable, my dear,” and reaches over the table, brushes his fingers against Roger's, only for a second, though it's enough to set off an electric spark of excitement. His hand is gone before Roger has even the chance to politely withdraw his.

Interrogation strategies is not Roger's speciality, but the feeling of being played does not vanish in the least, when Hani leans back with all his outrageous casual elegance and adds: “How do you like your cake, Mr Ferris?”

__

It's not much of a surprise that by the end of the day, several torturous hours of ambiguous conversation later, Roger winds up in Hani's hotel room. Perched on an armchair, nervous as a teenager, he is still not a hundred percent sure where this will lead, even though evidence is increasing that his guts were right in the first place. Hani offers him a cigar (which he declines) and a glass of whisky (which he accepts) and sits, long legs folding themselves in such a mesmerising manner, Roger can't help but stare, and then finally, Hani pats the sofa beside him and says: “Come here, Roger”, and Roger does not even try to suppress his sigh of relief, gets up, his knees even weaker than before, and shuffles over, slumps down beside Hani.

It's a trap that finally snaps shut.

Hani takes another pull from his cigar, puts it down in the ashtray, sets the ashtray aside. A simple series of movements, and yet Roger's mouth goes dry with anticipation. Up close, Hani is even more striking. As if underneath the polished sleekness there is something else, no less shiny, but harder, sharper, like broken glass, pressing against the smooth surface.

It almost makes Roger flinch when Hani raises his hand. Certainly there is a softness to his dark eyes, and the gorgeous fingers, when they finally touch his cheek, trail over his jawbone to pull him closer, they are gentle, the lips against his own soft and sweet, but what Roger sees in his mind's eye is a villain in an elegant suit holding a knife.

Their first kiss is barely more than a taste of smoke and whisky and the hint of expensive after-shave, the brush of lips, the slide of tongue too fleeting, too polite perhaps for Roger's preferences, and Hani knows it, Roger can hear it in the amused chuckle following his disappointed whimper when Hani breaks the kiss. 

“Don't be greedy, my dear,” he says. And the way his hand still rests ever so lightly against the curve of his neck, lets Roger pray silently for his wishes to come true, because now it is suddenly so obvious what he wants of Hani, crystal-clear in fact, and then he also hopes, that at least Hani will know better than to go through with this. As he said, business and pleasure don't mix too well. 

Maybe now would be the moment to run.

Roger does not run of course, but stays. Lets Hani touch him. Lets Hani peel him out of his clothes, out of his self-control, and press him onto the bed, the weight of his body so good, Roger has trouble breathing, gasps at the sensation of Hani looming over him, embarrassed by the sounds that escape him, needy, desperate, hardly appropriate for an experienced CIA operative. But Hani does not seem to mind, on the contrary. He may not have a knife, but there is something cutting in the warmth of his eyes, something liberating. He wants Roger to let go, surrender. Tells him so, as he runs his thumb over his bottom lip, tells him how lovely he is, falling apart like this so very quickly, already hard and leaking before he has even been touched, arching, bucking into Hani's hand. 

Hani wrings his orgasm from him with the same ease as these little incoherent noises, hardly any effort at all, and Roger knows he should be ashamed of being so swiftly unravelled, but somehow he can't, because Hani's smile is pleased, smug even, and he allows him to lick his fingers clean before he settles beside him on the bed and tells him exactly what he'll do next, how he will have him, and before long Roger finds himself wanting again, and scarcely less than before. 

He curls into Hani, almost blind with lust, places open-mouthed, reverent kisses on every inch of his skin, tasting that smooth, sun-tanned surface, the coarse dark hair, the hardening nipples, is proud to feel them tighten under his tongue and even more of the sharp intake of breath, this near-gasp of Hani's, who is ever so composed and controlled, and Roger would like nothing better than to have him moan his name, and by god, he tries. Presses the flat of his tongue worshipful against Hani's balls, against the velvety skin beneath, runs it over the length of his gorgeous cock, while he can think of nothing but Hani's promise to fuck him, how he would feel inside him, the stretch and slide, so damn good, and he must have made another one of his embarrassing sounds, because Hani chuckles and puts his hand on his head to guide him over his cock, almost polite, as in anything else he does, though no less decisive for it, and Roger swallows.

__

The next day, not much has changed. At breakfast Hani is his usual regal self, dashing in his expensive suit and as accomplished a conversationalist as ever, and no more or less courteous than before, for which, frankly, Roger is thankful. He could almost pretend the last night to have been a dream, if it weren't for the slight ache of his body and the satisfied sort of exhaustion. It seems all so unreal now. Still he can't help a twitch of embarrassment whenever he looks Hani in the eye, whenever he thinks of how he lost control, of how he told Hani his most well-preserved secrets, and how he begged for them. But there is also the flutter of excitement in the pit of his stomach and some sort of dread, a fear of loss. What if it has been a one time affair? Something about the thought seems utterly unbearable.

But Hani only looks at him, with these piercing golden eyes, as if he can see right through him, and says, casually, over buttering a slice of toast, “What do you think, Mr Ferris, perhaps if we're back in Jordan, you want to get me a knife?”

_


End file.
